The Sicilian Woman's Daughter
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The Sicilian Woman’s Daughter
Linda Lo Scuro
Sparkling Books
This is a cracking good read... A story that brings alive the heat and the underbelly of life in a Mafia controlled Sicilian village.
Ann Gough
The charm of reading this book is that: always, and I mean always, the reader is satisfied with the result... a confrontation between raw, unpolished power (men) and the sophistication of women’s minds.
Manuela Iordache
Vaffanculo..................I love the word as much as I love this book. Talk about attitude! Sicilian women are a surprising bunch according to Linda Lo Scuro's book “The Sicilian Woman's Daughter.” Abused, scheming, vindictive, connected, murderous, victims and victors.
I loved discovering the story of Maria aka Mary who came from a poor Sicilian background to recreate herself in England as a successful and wealthy teacher and wife to a high flier bank executive.
I was fascinated by this story and can completely understand the fascination Linda Lo Scuro has also. The excitement of danger is enthralling.
Andrea Brown, New Zealand
I felt I was reading a true account of how ordinary lives can be turned upside down by family connections we try to remove ourselves from (in this case the Mafia). Insightful, well written and I found the pace just right. The storyline took an interesting twist at the end which didn’t disappoint.
Dawn D’Auvin
Wow – this is a great story! The writing is superb throughout and I see Linda Lo Scuro progressing to great success.
Phil Rowan
Linda Lo Scuro weaves the story about the daughter of Sicilian immigrants with layer upon layer of substance. It’s a must-read for mystery lovers.
Carolyn Bowen
An interesting and thought provoking read this one... this separation of identities and anonymity is crushing to read about.
Maria tells her story of her Sicily and the image the world has of that place - its mafia connections and how she and everyone from there is tarred with the same brush. As the story takes us on that (very fascinating) train journey across to the island, secrets start to float to the surface, as do the bodies...
A fascinating look at the mafia stain on a family of women and what they have to do to survive, bring justice and not be a victim. There are four generations of women’s stories to immerse yourself in and this is a real treat, never too much nor too long. Sicilian words pepper the text as they would the pasta.
An enthralling read on many levels.
Book Trail
Certainly exciting and riveting reading. An enthralling glimpse into another world where grandmothers keep a gun close to hand... it was a fast moving book, included plenty of surprises, and gave an insight into a different way of life and family ties.
The book has left me wondering how much of it is based on the reality of life in some of the regions of this island. Thought provoking!
Emma B Books
I have always considered women to be the “power behind the throne” ... and this book proves it to be true. It was fascinating to read about how different her lives were depending on where she was or WHO she was that day.
This is an addictive read from page one to last and thoroughly enjoyable! Great book!
Janet Cousineau
The story tells of all the things that the mafia has done in Sicily and brought over to London... very interesting and very easy to follow.
Mary Weimer
I enjoyed reading this book immensely. Even though it’s fiction it gave you an insight into what might happen in this sort of family. Plus, you learn great words in Sicilian!
Doris Vandruff
An exciting plot, great characterisation and an unexpected ending all add up to a thoroughly enjoyable read.
Millie Thom
OUTSTANDING. This book makes very interesting reading and a lot of research has gone into it. I also like Linda’s writing style, and the plot flowed. I have awarded this book 5 deserving stars.
Haley Norton
No matter how many rosaries you say, how faithful you are, there are always excuses to take revenge if that suits you well. Female sophistication and guns, poison, and network connections do the trick. The plot’s convincing and rich in local flavors.
Henk-Jan van der Klis
The right of Linda Lo Scuro to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved
© Sparkling Books Limited 2018
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, associations, enterprises, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organisations, associations, enterprises, events or places is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted by any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover design based on an image © shutterstock.com / Allen G
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-907230-70-7
A printed edition is widely available. ISBN: 978-1-907230-69-1
3.2
@SparklingBooks
“All those women saw their men down and under.”
James Joyce, Ulysses
With thanks to my editor
Lynn Curtis,
and the Sparkling Books team
Linda Lo Scuro
Characters
Unless stated otherwise the characters are in relation to the protagonist Maria (Mary). Some minor characters and spoilers have been left out of this list.
Nuclear family:
Humps (Humphrey), husband
Clara, daughter
Emma, daughter
Mark, Emma’s husband
Little Benjamin, grandson. Emma and Mark’s son.
Extended family:
Zia, aunt (mother’s sister)
Tony, uncle (Zia’s husband)
Silvio, cousin (Zia’s son)
Stefano, cousin (Zia’s son)
Susi, cousin (Zia’s daughter)
Peppina, aunt (mother’s sister)
Gloria, aunt (father’s sister)
Giuseppe, uncle (father’s brother)
Ziuzza, great aunt, (grandmother’s sister, on her mother’s side)
Old Cushi, cousin once removed, (Ziuzza’s son)
Young Cushi, second cousin (Old Cushi’s son)
Adele, Young Cushi’s daughter
Elena, step-mother
Teodoro, Zia’s brother-in-law. Tony’s brother.
Bella and Rosa, Teodoro’s daughters
Adriano, Teodoro’s son
Carmela, Teodoro’s wife
Elderly neighbours when Maria was a child:
“Auntie” Marge
“Uncle” Peter, husband of Marge
Dorothy, Marge’s sister
Belinda, Dorothy’s daughter
Charlie, a visitor to Marge and Peter’s house
Visitors to Zia’s house (and their connections):
Giusy, a hair stylist
Alberto, Giusy’s lover, owner of an amusement arcade
Olga, Alberto’s wife
Nancy, manageress of arcade
Angelina, Zia’s Sicilian friend
Provvi (Provvidenza), Angelina’s daughter
Giulio, Provvi’s husband
; Beatrice, Angelina’s twin sister in Sicily
Maria’s friends in Sicily when she was eighteen:
Franca
Patrizia
Riverside View inhabitants:
Ruth and Ian – 1st floor
Richard and Barbara – pensioners – 2nd floor
Charlie and Sarah and their children: Nigella and Tristram – 3rd floor
Maria and Humphrey – 4th floor
Pablo and Consuelo – 5th floor
Dorset:
Yvonne and Henry, neighbours
Nigel, gardener
Sicilian / Italian Words and Expressions
* standard Italian
(otherwise Sicilian dialect)
asetta – sit down
biviti – drink up
buco du culu – arsehole
buon appetito* – enjoy your meal
bagascia – slut
bagasci – sluts
du big bagasci – two big sluts
campagna* – countryside
cannolo – Sicilian cakes with a ricotta filling
cannoli – as above, but plural
capisti? – have you understood?
cassuni – a big drawer (bodies stacked one on top of the other in a cemetery)
cugliuna – balls, testicles
disgraziatu – unfortunate
donna d’onore* – woman of honour, a woman high up in the mafia hierarchy
fittente – stinking, rotten
futtiri – fuck
maliducato – rude person
maliducati – rude people
mangia* – eat
mangiare* – to eat
minghia – prick (word also used to express surprise or to call someone an idiot)
minghiuni – big prick (big idiot)
picciotto – thug
picciotti – thugs
piglati chissu – take that
pignata – cauldron
puttane* – whores
salute e figlie femmini – cheers, (drink to) to female daughters
stra-minghiuni – extra big prick (enormous idiot)
trasi – come in
troia* – slut
troie* – sluts
uomo d’onore* – man of honour, a man high up in the mafia hierarchy
vaffanculo* – fuck it / fuck off
vileno – venom
zoccula – slut (literally, sandal)
zoccule – sluts
PROLOGUE
Rumour had it that Ziuzza, my grandmother’s sister, on my mother’s side, carried a gun in her apron pocket – both at home and when she went out. She wore her apron back-to-front, resulting in the pocket being propped up against her belly. She kept her right hand poised there, between her dress and apron as if she had bellyache. I had noticed this suspicious behaviour when on holiday in Sicily with my family when I was twelve. At that stage, never could I have imagined that she was concealing a gun, while she stood there in my grandmother’s kitchen watching me have breakfast. I never saw her sitting down. She brought us thick fresh milk, containing a cow’s hair or two, in the early mornings and often stayed to chat.
She had a dog, Rocco, white and brown, which she tied to a wooden stake in my grandmother’s stable downstairs. It was a lively animal, snapping at whoever passed it, jumping and yapping. The mules, the rightful inhabitants of the stable, were out in the campagna with my grandfather from the break of dawn each day.
A tight silver bun stood proudly on Ziuzza’s head. Her frowning face always deadly serious. Fierce, even. An overly tanned and wrinkled face. Skin as thick as cows’ hide. Contrastingly, her eyes were of the sharpest blue – squinting as she stared, as if viewing me through thick fog. I was scared of her. Truly scared. And all the other women were frightened, too. You could tell by the way they spoke to her, gently and smiling. Careful not to upset her, always agreeing with her opinions. They toadied up to her well and proper. An inch away from grovelling.
And, I found out the rumours about the gun were true. Ziuzza would come and bake bread and cakes at my grandmother’s house because of the enormous stone oven in the garden. I helped carry wood to keep the flames alive. Did my bit. One day the sisters made some Sicilian cakes called cuddureddi, meaning: ‘little ropes.’ They rolled the dough with their bare hands, into thick round lengths in the semblance of snakes. Using a sharp knife, they then sliced the snake-shape in half, longways, spread the lower half of the butchered snake with home-made fig jam. They put the snake together again, slashed it into chunks. Then the chunks were dealt with one-by-one and manipulated into little ropes by pinching them forcefully into shape with their nimble fingers.
As Ziuzza bent over to wipe her mouth on the corner of her pinafore, I caught a glimpse of her gun. I was sitting at the table sprinkling the first trayful of cuddureddi with sugar. No doubt about it. It was there in Ziuzza’s big inside pocket of her pinafore. While I was looking at the bulge, she caught me out. We exchanged glances, then our eyes locked. She narrowed her hooded eyelids into slits and crunched up her face. I blinked a few times, then looked around for some more wood to replenish the oven, grabbed a few logs and vanished into the garden.
After she received a sickening threat, Rocco’s bloodied paws were posted to her in a box, she, like her dog, came to a violent end. Ziuzza was shot in her back, in broad daylight, by someone riding by on a Vespa. People with line of sight, from their windows to the body, hurried to close their shutters. Nobody saw who it was. Nobody heard the gunshots, though the road was a main artery from one end of The Village to the other. And nobody called a doctor. It would be taking sides. Which you certainly didn’t want to do. Added to that was the fact that Ziuzza at that moment was on the losing side. She was left to bleed to death in the road like an animal. It wasn’t until the dustcart came round that they removed her body because it couldn’t get by. But nobody commented, it was as if they were removing a big piece of rubbish. It was nothing to them. But instead of throwing it away, they took the body to her home. Nobody was in. So they brought it to my grandmother’s house instead.
This was the lowest point in our family’s history. With time, though, Ziuzza managed to triumph through her son, Old Cushi, who began the escalation. And, later, her grandson, Young Cushi, completed it by becoming the undisputed boss of our village, of the region, and beyond. But the transition was not easy. A bloody feud ensued. Lives were lost on both sides. Some might know who Ziuzza’s enemies were. I didn’t get an inkling. Most of the information I came across was from listening to what the grown-ups in our family were saying. And they never mentioned her rivals by name. Some faceless entity fighting for control of the area.
This is just one of the episodes I remember from our holidays in Sicily. There are many more. Every three years, I went to Sicily with my parents. Those I remember were when I was nine, twelve, fifteen and eighteen. The last time we went my mother was ill and we travelled by plane. All the other times we travelled by train because poverty accompanied us wherever we went. I think we had some kind of subsidy from the Italian Consulate in the UK for the train fare. It was a three-day-two-night expedition. I remember setting out from Victoria Station carrying three days’ supply of food and wine with us. Especially stuck in my mind was the food: lasagne, roast chicken, cheese, loaves of bread. We’d have plates, cutlery, glasses, and an assortment of towels with us. At every transfer all this baggage had to be carried on to the next stage. No wheels on cases in those days. Then we’d get the ferry from Dover to Calais, and so began the first long stretch through France, Switzerland, until we finally pulled into Milan Station. Where our connection to Sicily was after a seven-hour wait.
We used to sleep on the waiting-room benches, though it was daytime, until someone complained about the space we were taking up. The Italian northerners had a great disdain for southern Italians. They saw us as muck, rolled their eyes at us, insulted us openly calling us “terroni”, meaning: “those who haven’t evolved from the soil.” Even though
I was young, I noticed it, and felt like a second category being – a child of a minor god. There was the civilised world and then there was us. My parents didn’t answer back. And it was probably the time when I came closest to feeling sorry for them. For us.
The journey all the way down to the tip of Italy – the toe of the boot – was excruciating. The heat in the train unbearable. When there was water in the stinking toilets, we gave ourselves a cursory wipe with flannels. Sometimes we used water in bottles. Every time we stopped at a station, my father would ask people on the platforms to fill our bottles. Then came the crossing of the Strait of Messina. At Villa San Giovanni, the train was broken into fragments of three coaches and loaded into the dark belly of the ferry. My mother wouldn’t leave the train for fear of thieves taking our miserable belongings, until the ferry left mainland Italy. While my father and I went up on the deck to take in the view. But we had orders to go back down to the train as soon as the ferry left. Then I’d go up again with my mother. She became emotional when Sicily was well in sight. She would become ecstatic. Talk to any passengers who’d listen to her. Some totally ignored her. She’d wave to people on passing ferries. Laughing and, surprisingly, being nice to me.
Reassembled together again, the train would crawl at a tortoise’s pace along the Sicilian one-track countryside railway, under the sweltering heat. Even peasants who were travelling within Sicily moved compartment when they got a whiff of us. Another event that excited my mother was when the train stopped at a level crossing. A man got out of his van, brought a crate of lemons to our train and started selling them to the passengers hanging out of the windows. My mother bought a big bag full and gave me one to suck saying it would quench my thirst. Another man came along selling white straw handbags with fringes, and she bought me one.